Code Geass The Lost: Re
by Knight of Zero
Summary: Two people, two lives, two fates. One is a confident new Britannian officer, the other a lost teenager who has lost his life to amnesia. As their lives intertwine within a conflict that will define and polarise many, where will their decisions take them?


(Note that this is a rewrite of my other fanfic, Code Geass the Lost.)

01- area eleven (part one)

It is the year a.t.b 2010. Conflict ravages the face of the earth as three great superpowers take to each other's throats at every opportunity, searching for kind of advantage over the other. War, lies, tears, blood. Under the clouds of battle, man sheds its innocence in a ceaseless search for pride and material advantage.

a.t.b 2010, August 10th. In a bid to seize the large amounts of the strategically important superconducting mineral Sakuradite hidden within the nation, the Holy Empire of Britannia declares war on the island nation of Japan. Led by the Knight of One, Lord Winterback, the Britannians seize the Pacific Islands within days and landings commence a week later. The Japanese mainland is attacked from several directions at once and, though it puts up a desperate fight, the Japanese Army breaks apart under the sheer strength of the Britannians and the tactical advantage held by their new high mobility humanoid assault weapons, Knightmares.

Under the direction of Lord Winterback, Britannian forces systematically crush all Japanese resistance. Mercy is not given; treated like an underclass of humans, pockets of Japanese resistance are crushed one by one under Britannia's iron fist until, by the 29th of August, the Britannian flag flies high over Tokyo. Prime Minister Kururugi of Japan commits suicide in shame and thus, Japan is conquered by Britannian forces in a brief, bloody war. Under the decorum of Britannian victory, Japan is turned into the Empire's 'Area 11', a mere colony, and the Japanese, treated like animals by their new masters, are renamed 'Elevens' and forced to live in third-world settlements, exploited by the Britannians who live in pristine settlements created out of the blood and sweat of the vanquished.

a.t.b 2017. 7 years have passed since Japan was taken over. Years of labour and abuse under the Britannians have extinguished the last vestiges of Japanese hope; oppression is a fact of life, and save for the few resistance groups fighting a losing war of attrition against the Britannians, most of the Japanese have quietly accepted their new identity and have moved on. Without any apparent way of escaping the hellhole of Britannian occupation, the Elevens simply do as they are told, simply because there is no alternative.

On this day, Japanese terrorists manage to obtain Britannian military chemical weapons, escaping with it into the depths of the Shinjuku Ghetto. Prince Clovis la Britannia, acting Governor of Area 11 and the 3rd Prince in line to the Britannian throne, deploys all available forces, intent on destroying these terrorists in his rage. Knightmare Frames surround the Ghetto and, under Prince Clovis' orders, they are instructed to destroy the Shinjuku Ghetto outright, terrorists and civilians. It is as though the struggles of the Elevens have, after a seven year period, finally been brought to an end. And yet, as ranks of Britannian Knightmares and soldiers carve a bloody swathe through the Ghetto, something is different.

For today, the last of the Japanese are about to be blessed by a miracle beyond their wildest dreams.

Within the Britannian ranks, a single officer, oblivious to his future, charges into the fray without hesitation. With a quiet streak of ambition and skill behind his actions, his fate will soon become intertwined with that of the land upon which he stands; today, things will change in a way that seven years of peace has rendered unthinkable.

After today, nothing will be the same ever again.

_a.t.b 2017, the Shinjuku Ghetto._

The Glasgow raised a scratched arm in desperation, and as its landspinners squealed, trying to propel itself as fast it possibly could in a retreat over scratched asphalt, the Eleven pilot gritted his teeth, beads of sweat running down his cheeks as the beeping and warning lights enveloped his cockpit, a burst of rounds tearing his Knightmare's raised arm. The hot summer sun beat down on them from above, and as the blue Britannian Knightmare relentlessly closed the gap between them, evading the shots from his rifle effortlessly, he gave a sobbed curse and fired his grenade launcher, watching the round sail past his assailant's head and into a nearby wall, blowing it in. The warning lights intensified as his rifle emptied itself with a click, and, as the Britannian Knightmare took the opportunity to charge, the Eleven realised that his short winning streak was over. Crying out loudly, he pushed his Knightmare forwards to meet the Britannian, flailing at the enemy in desperation. His Glasgow's fist sailed past the enemy, he felt something crash against his cockpit and, as the hot, humid air of the Japanese summer filled his cockpit, the last thing he saw was the silver glint of a stun tonfa.

The Glasgow slumped forwards. Crackling, the motionless Knightmare fell to the ground as the Sutherland dumped it off its arm, and, turning with obvious disgust, the red-shouldered Britannian Knightmare returned to where its squad stood watching.

"Lieutenant Winterback." came the voice of the squad leader, Kewell. "You never fail to impress."

Winterback. His name was Linus Winterback. The obvious heir to the respected and known Winterback family, the son of the Lord who had brought Japan to its knees, Linus himself was well known for becoming an ace at the age of 17. Instantly recognisable with his grey hair and piercing eyes, and his curt, proud nature, Linus was the pride of his father; none within the Purists could hold anything against him.

"My Lord." he replied, turning his Knightmare to face that of his commander. "Our orders are to capture this sector, and my role is to facilitate that." His eyes narrowed as he added "I must point out that we have not done this yet."

Kewell replied "The rest of the Purists have to catch up, Lieutenant. All in good time."

Linus wordlessly turned away. At this rate, they would miss the battle entirely; a train full of reinforcements was on the way, and when they arrived, the battle would be all but over. The Elevens in their Glasgows had never stood a chance in the first place, and Linus knew that, but he still felt a tinge of annoyance at the fact that he would miss out of some must desired action. He understood the rationale behind his commander's decision; that said, it wasn't every day that a resistance group became arrogant enough to rear its head. His radio crackled as yet another Britannian commander ordered his troops to go after some Elevens, and Linus sat back in his cockpit with a sigh. All in good time.

And so they waited under the beating sunlight, standing tall over the rubble and wreckage around them, as though oblivious to the blood and carnage they had wrought.

* * *

"Charge, charge!" roared the captain, pushing his Sutherland forwards as he chased the one-armed Glasgow down a side alley. "Hunt down these filthy animals and do me proud!" His squad gave a roar of approval, and they sped forwards, their landspinners carrying them over the broken ground of the Shinjuku Ghetto effortlessly. Though the Glasgow had evaded their shots without trouble, it was still an obsolete machine. The Sutherlands were gaining on it second by second and, raising his spear, the captain grinned eagerly as he considered the prospect of adding yet another kill to his already impressive Area Eleven tally. The Elevens were the perfect hunting material; just eager enough to make it amusing, and just inept enough to make it easy.

And then one of their Knightmares was hit. He only saw the smoke trail of the rocket before it crashed into the side of one of his Sutherlands and, a gaping hole in its cockpit, the Sutherland rolled on for a moment before it erupted into an explosion. The squad formation crumbled as more rockets erupted out of nearby windows, and, as they smashed into the rest of his troops, he looked up to see the Glasgow turn and raise its rifle. It fired a few bursts at his Sutherland and, grunting as they crashed into his Knightmare, the captain roared "You dirty Eleven!", lashing out with his stun tonfas as he saw red; how dare they. How dare they!

The stun tonfas sailing past her Knightmare, her expression hardened as her Glasgow's rifle ran out of ammunition. Tossing it away, she fired her slash harkens as the Sutherland tried to raise its rifle; the anchors tore it out of the Britannian's hand and into the distance, where it exploded. Her Glasgow slammed into the Sutherland shoulder-first before it could react and, knocking its spear out of its hands with a swift kick, she fired both her Slash Harkens into the Britannian at almost point blank range, tearing through its arms. They fell to the ground with a sickening crunch, and as she pummelled the Knightmare's head, the factsphere crackling as it was pounded, the cockpit ejected into the distance. Shaking off the now dead Knightmare as it slumped onto her Glasgow, Kallen stood and watched the smoke rising in the distance. Their constant lightning-fast attacks had weakened the Britannians but, even under the leadership of their new, mysterious leader, Kallen was beginning to doubt that the Japanese would survive the full might of the Britannians. Behind her, the rest of her resistance cell were moving out in the Sutherlands they had just acquired from an incoming train, and, deciding that something was better than nothing, she joined them. "P-4, take your team east. Q-1, and the rest of you, go down the centre and pummel the Britannians there while you retain the element of surprise. Speed is of the essence." came their new commander's voice yet again.

As long as her friends believed that they could win, she wouldn't abandon them. After all, death was better than watching Britannia's rot spread over the Japan in which she'd grown up. "Let's go!" she shouted, and a roar of approval went up amongst the tattered Resistance as they charged into the battlefield, each member harbouring doubts but ready to fight to the death nonetheless.

* * *

Stray rounds scattered across the open road. Unable to turn in time, one of the Britannian Knightmares took the full force of the concentrated fire, the large rounds slamming into his unit until, with a short curse, he engaged the ejection seat and rocketed away from his crumbling Sutherland, crashing into the wall with a grunt. More bullets quickly joined the others, and the rest of the unit took cover behind ruined walls. The pilot of the downed Knightmare was swearing, and over the crackling radio connection, he shouted "Goddamn Elevens... get out of here on my own."

"No." said Linus over the squad frequency. "Wait. You won't get out of there alive at this rate." Without any countermanding statement from Kewell, the pilot couldn't do anything, and with an unsatisfied grunt he sat back in his cockpit. In the distance, the enemy Knightmares were suppressing the Britannians with uncanny accuracy, the bullets tearing past the squad, and eventually, Kewell spoke.

"Linus Winterback, I'm going to deploy a Chaos Charge." he began. "If you can move into position and pick them off from here while the Charge forces them to take cover, we'll be able to get out of this mess." His Sutherland was already holding the charge, and yet just before Kewell leaned out of cover to throw the device, Linus interrupted.

"My Lord, I disagree." he replied, frowning as he thought over the situation at hand. "We have no idea if those two Knightmares are the only ones assigned to keeping us suppressed. If there are more enemies in cover by the time the charge is spent, then we might as well be in the same predicament, minus the element of surprise."

"So what do you propose we do?" asked Kewell, slightly annoyed by the junior officer's rebuke.

"The spear dropped by my squadmate over there should prove adequate." came the response from a smiling Linus.

"Charging those enemies would be suicidal, and even if you get there, there's no guarantee that you won't be decimated by the additional forces you spoke of yourself."

"My Lord." said Linus, as the enemy's fire intensified. "Either way, the only person at risk is myself. And who knows? Perhaps it's just crazy enough to work." There was a short pause, and eventually, his Sutherland shifting back to throw the chaos charge, Kewell gritted his teeth.

"You don't seem to understand the potential consequences of your death, but all right, seeing that it's all we have left." He glanced at the chaos grenade, and turned to Linus. Nodding, he muttered "3, 2, 1..."

The chaos charge sailed into the hot air. Focusing on keeping the Sutherlands pinned down, the Elevens didn't notice the small device sailing into the air until it was too late; panicking, they darted behind cover as the contraption sprayed a hail of deadly pellets across the road upon which they had been standing moments ago. The metal shreds bounced and ricocheted; the noise alone was enough to keep the Elevens behind walls, and Linus used the opportunity to dart out from behind cover. Landspinners squealing, the crossed the road in a wide arc and grabbed the spear, getting used to the weight of the weapon as he went. The silvered metal glistening as he charged towards the chaos charge and the enemies, Linus' expression was quietly determined. Nothing was impossible, especially for a Winterback.

The chaos charge stopped whirring, the metal canister clattering to a halt before plummeting into a small crater below it. One of the Eleven pilots, opening his eyes to see that the pellets were no longer shredding the ground to his immediate side, cautiously and momentarily glanced out of cover to check for the gleam of a rifle barrel from the Britannian lines.

The spear slammed head-on into the Sutherland's factsphere. Shearing through the Knightmare's head, it tore through the metal and, as the other Eleven tried to fire, Linus used the rear end of the large weapon to pin its arm against the wall. The two Elevens struggled, trying to escape from the Knightmare; Linus, seizing his chance, quickly deployed the stun tonfa on his Sutherland's left arm and slashed downwards, catching the rifle of the crippled Eleven in front of him. The weapon crashed to the ground, crackling, and before Linus could bring the tonfa down on the Eleven's cockpit, it ejected, sailing over a half-destroyed building to land somewhere in the distance. Behind him, the other hostile was striking at the spear with its other arm; Linus could see dust being kicked up as more Elevens headed his way, obviously aware of the turn in their fortunes.

He'd have to hurry. Using the spear, Linus dragged the Eleven's Sutherland to the ground and, as it was pulled across the rubble, he used the spear to hurl the Knightmare into the air. Letting go of the spear, he managed to hit the Knightmare with his stun tonfas as it sailed past him; crashing into the ground, it moved feebly for a moment, erupting into an explosion. The Knightmares in the distance had stopped, their pilots shocked by the grim spectacle, and Kewell's squad took the opportunity to move down the road, pinning them down with accurate fire. As their rifles clattered, spitting bullets down the road at the Sutherlands, Kewell remarked "You never fail to impress."

Linus smiled, pausing for a moment to pick up a fallen Knightmare's rifle and the spear before replying to his commander's compliment. "Success is not optional for those with pride, my Lord." Kewell laughed, and slowly, the Britannians managed to push the Elevens back.

"This area's proving to be more than we expected." said one of the squad members. "When are the reinforcements arriving by rail?"

Linus' smile dissipated as he replied "From what I can see, they've already arrived."

"What?"

"These are the reinforcements, Harris." explained Kewell.

"Not for the right side... dammit!" came the response, as the Purist, hit in the shoulder by a stray grenade, was forced to pull back as the Elevens increased their volume of fire, hitting another member of the squad head-on, sending his Knightmare to the ground.

"Dammit, this is Captain John Antony of the 7th Vanguard Assault Platoon, over! We have encountered a large number of hostile Sutherlands... where did these Elevens come from? No, the left... argh!" The radio crackled before it died, and the Purist squad grimly considered their options, listening to similar incidents springing up across the entire Ghetto.

"I've never seen the Elevens manoeuvre this quickly." remarked Linus. "It's as though they've learned their lessons...!" Suddenly, a Sutherland darted out of a nearby alley, and Linus, cursing, raised his rifle and sent a grenade into its cockpit, blowing the Knightmare open as another took its place.

"They've flanked us." muttered Kewell. "Fall back. Fall back and regroup!" he shouted. The squad quickly retreated; some were inevitably hit in the process, their Sutherlands crashing to the ground. Linus emptied his rifle as he covered the Purists, and hearing the 'click' of a useless weapon, he cursed and threw the useless weapon to the ground. Kewell shouted "Winterback! That's enough; get back!" Linus reached for a chaos charge and tossed it into the bright air, retreating into the murky depths of the Ghetto as the whirring of his parting gift joined the battlefield ambience.

They were silent as they slowly cruised through the dark alleys of the Ghetto's centre. Only half a dozen of them were left; the rest of their squad had been decimated in the fierce combat, and probably killed while escaping; ignominious deaths for brave warriors. Linus silently brooded upon his inability to react to the sudden change in events. He'd managed to hold the Elevens off, but in the face of their flanking, he'd been rendered useless...

"Winterback." said Kewell, out of the blue. "There was nothing you could have done; all we can do now is regroup and find some other ways to hit the enemy."

"... yes, my Lord." Linus' voice was hesitant, but Kewell knew that any doubts he harboured would be sidelined during the battle.

The Britannian army was in chaos. The vanguard had been completely demolished, and as the commanders, completely unaware of the situation within the Ghetto, poured reinforcements into the breach, most of them were destroyed by lightning fast flanking manoeuvres. Already, some were quietly muttering over group frequencies that Tohdoh had returned, and those Britannian units not consumed by fear were fighting for their lives amidst the ruined buildings. The Elevens had never fought like this during the seven year period of their occupation; it was as though their rage had been supplemented by the mind of a military genius.

"Sir..." came one of his soldiers' voices, and Kewell snapped out of his thoughts to see a wall in front of him.

A dead-end! Kewell turned his Knightmare, realising too late that they had not been harassed by Eleven forces not because they hadn't been noticed, but because there was no need to! He could already see the glowing of factspheres in the distance, and he gritted his teeth once more as he saw the full extent of the trap into which they had been lured with ease; now, stuck in a dead-end, the six remaining Knightmares of the squad would be easy prey for any who deigned to engage them.

"Well, men, it was nice knowing you." muttered Kewell, turning to face the Elevens.

"My Lord, it's too early to give up." came Linus' reply over the crackling group frequency.

"You sound as though you have an infallible plan." Kewell had his hands on his Knightmare's trigger, and Linus laughed in response to his statement.

"You could call it that." replied the young officer, staring down the alleyway. "The enemy expects us to hole up here and be shot at; we'll certainly die if we choose that option, with nowhere to escape. Our only other option is to charge."

"Charge?" came Kewell's surprised reply.

"We have nothing to lose; it's not as though we have many other options. At least, this way, we have a chance, my Lord."

Kewell was hesitant, as any other commander would be, to send the remnants of his decimated squad at an enemy force whose composition was completely unknown. But around him, the rest of the squad had eagerly raised their weapons, and one of them said "My Lord, we are more than ready to bring the fight to these Elevens."

With his conscience out of the way, Kewell raised his spear. The sun shone through the cracks in the walls around them, and as the light caught their weapons, he turned to face the enemy. "We will not let claims of cowardice blemish our name. Winterback!"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Lead the charge." Smiling thinly, Linus raised his own weapon and stepped forward. His Sutherland, scratched and battered, seemed as though it would fall apart, but as long as it still moved, he could fight.

"With gladness."

Linus' suggestion had seemed, to the rest of the squad, like bravado in the face of adversity. Their mistake lay in the fact that his thinking did not operate around such lines; his sense of achievement came from the satisfactory attainment of the end, rather than the refinement of the means. In his silence as they retreated from the Elevens, Linus had mulled over his failure to defeat the enemy's flanking manoeuvre, but his thoughts had quickly gone towards salvaging something out of the situation at hand.

The enemy was numerically superior. Their commander's tactics seemed to involve impeding the enemy's mobility with suppressing fire before striking at their weak points, and forcing them to move into vulnerable positions where traps could easily be sprung. It was the thinking of someone who understood the fact that numerically inferior troops could in fact hold the upper hand in a battle, and now that the Purist squad had been whittled down to a shadow of its former side, the enemy held both the tactical and numerical advantage; for the enemy commander, it was an all-but-assured victory.

Which was why a charge was not only the last but best option available to them. Closing the gap between them and the enemy had the potential to turn the tables on the enemy's initial successes; unable to exercise their numerical advantage for fear of hitting their allies within the confined spaces of the Ghetto, and overwhelmed by the close range advantage of the better equipped Britannians, the Elevens would have no choice but to open the distance up some more by retreating. The rest was simply hunting for Elevens; by closing their trap, the Elevens had placed the cards in their enemies' hands.

His landspinners propelled him across the ruined ground. Realising what was happening, one of the Elevens tried to open fire, shouting a warning to his comrades before Linus' spear caught his Knightmare in the face, sending it crashing to the ground in a shower of shattered metal. Panicking, another Eleven sprayed the air with bullets, but Linus used the stricken Eleven as a body shield, using it to cover his charge; flinging it aside at the last moment, he sent the Eleven to the ground where he belonged with the flat of his spear. Pinning the Knightmare's rifle down with the bottom of his weapon, Linus watched as the pilot scrambled out of the cockpit, running desperately before it exploded in a shower of flames. In the distance, the other Elevens had turned and were escaping; finishing off the last of the stragglers, Kewell's expression was still one of uncertainty as he watched the fleeing Elevens.

"They fled too quickly. Something's wrong."

"My Lord, the Elevens are cowards. There's nothing wrong; we should push on while we can." came Linus' reply.

"Lieutenant, I can assure you, even the Elevens don't flee like that unless there's a good reason to. We have to find out what that is before it's too late to...!"

Rumbling. Linus glanced down in surprise as the ground began to shake, and he saw dust rising in the distance. Shouts of shock and surprise began to go up over the communications channels, and he stared in disbelief as the cloud of dust began to come closer. How on...!

Another trap.

As the rest of the Purists scrambled for cover, Linus shook his head and quickly fired his slash harkens at a nearby building, watching as the anchors hooked into the concrete. The dust was nearing, and Linus quickly pulled his Sutherland up towards the top of the building. With a jolt of horror, he glanced down, watching as the dust consumed the scrambling Purists below. Shouting "Lord Kewell!", Linus tried to drop back down to help his comrades.

"No, Lieutenant! Don't... save yourself...!" Kewell's voice cut out abruptly as the dust and rubble consumed his Sutherland, falling into the ground as it cracked and opened. Reaching out in futile desperation, Linus could only watch as his commander's Knightmare fell away and into the darkness, together with the rest of the squad. His eyes wide in shock, he watched as the dust slowly covered everything before his eyes, and winced as the building upon which his Sutherland hung cracked and crumbled. This was it, then.

As he fell, Linus swore he saw something flash past his eyes. Then he hit the ground, and everything went black.

* * *

Running. Panting. He threw a glance back and stumbled over some cobbles; nobody was there. His eyes went back to the road in front of him, long and empty, and, wide eyed and breathing deeply, he searched for somewhere to run, somewhere to hide. In the distance, a pair of ornate gates were wide open, and without a second thought he made his way towards it. His eyes kept on darting backwards and, as he entered the gates, his eyes widened as though he saw something.

Stumbling. Gasping. He scrambled forwards and plunged into a bush, where he lay breathing shallowly, a lone teenager with a frenzied, fearful look in his eyes. As he quietly lay, breathing, he slowly picked himself up, looking around and, sighing in relief, he sat against a tree and cradled his head in his hands. After a moment of mutely surveying the ground before him, he eventually looked up and, in a hushed voice, asked himself a vital question.

"W... who am I?"

* * *

A grassy field spread out before his eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a tall figure, slender and beautiful yet imposing, stood with back turned to him. Something about the person called out to him, and he took a tentative step forwards, one after another until, without understanding why, he began to sprint towards her. Something seemed wrong... something seemed missing.

Then the flames surrounding him, and the dream slipped away from his grasp.

He woke with a gasp. His eyes slowly adjusting to the flashing red lights surrounding him, the sound of beeps filled his ears and he fell back against his seat, exhausted. His radio crackled, and after sitting back for a moment, he tried to turn it on and said "This is Lieutenant Winterback, 7th Knightmare Platoon." There was no response, and he quickly gave up, wondering what would happen next. Cracks of light peered in from outside the cockpit, and he thought about what had happened to his squad. He'd watched them as they plunged into the abyss, and Linus bit back his remorse as he remembered Kewell's last shouts to him.

Save yourself. He'd done just that. A sense of shame swept over Linus, and he banged a fist against the side of his cockpit.

After a while, he glanced back. His cockpit had been pierced by shards of rubble in the aftermath of his fall, and as he glanced over the shards of concrete and metal protruding from the sides, he realised that he'd been saved by luck alone. Trying not to think of the fates of his fellow soldiers, he kicked open a box underneath his seat and pulled out a rifle, pulling out a handful of long magazines and pushing them into a utility belt, which he strapped around his pilot suit. He pulled a small medical kit out of the box, clipping it onto the belt, and, praying to anyone who'd care to listen, he engaged the cockpit opening mechanism.

The seat had jammed, but Linus climbed towards the end of the open cockpit and tumbled out, hitting the hard concrete with a side roll. Breathing heavily, he looked back up at his cockpit, wincing as the light of the sun glared down towards him. The Sutherland in which he'd fought lay face down on the ground, both shoulders torn off with its head dashed by a large rock. He sat silently for a moment, mulling over his fate; trapped in a Ghetto, with nobody coming to his rescue, armed solely with an assault rifle. There were enemy Knightmares roving the area, most likely, and it was only by luck that he hadn't been captured yet; eventually, it would run out, and he would find himself in the hands of the sworn enemies of Britannia.

In the hands of Elevens. The side of Linus' mouth contorted into a grimace as he considered his fate at the hands of those degenerates. They had been defeated seven years ago, and yet they continued to resist the authority of the Britannian Empire. They were a desperate race, clinging to a national identity that they should have left behind all those years ago.

Grabbing his rifle, he stood and looked over the rubble. Climbing over one pile with the weapon slung over his back, he stepped forward into the depths of the Ghetto. Empty roads spread out in front of him, ruined buildings dotting the edges of his periphery and the sides of the long roads before his eyes, the concrete cracked and crumbling. In the distance, smoke rose and the sounds of gunfire echoed through the empty streets, a single bloodstained corpse slumped against a nearby wall. This was all they fought for now, their noble cause. Glancing to both sides for any movement, Linus quietly crossed the road, cradling his rifle in his arms as he stepped towards the dead Eleven. Stopping a few metres away from him, he contemplated the dead man's faces, his eyes closed and his face in an unnatural expression of calm within the warring ruins, the sunlight glinting off the pool of blood at his feet.

His eyes didn't even flicker. Looking wordlessly over the man, Linus turned and walked away towards the rising smoke, the same sun beating down on him.

* * *

Kewell's eyes slowly readjusted to the light as he awoke to the sound of shouts.

"My Lord?" Looking to his side, he recognised one of his soldiers, and his memory slowly came back to him and he remembered what had happened in the depths of the Ghetto.

The explosion. The fall... Trying to pull himself up, he winced as he felt a sharp pain by his gut and a medical officer gently pushed him back down, saying "My Lord, I must ask you to stay calm. You're still under anaesthetics." His eyes darting to his left, Kewell saw a long tube attached to his arm and he sat back down, staring into the eyes of his subordinate.

"Is everyone fine?" he asked after a while, and the soldier's eyes darted down.

"Most of the squad is fine, my Lord." replied the man, obviously uncomfortable, and before Kewell could ask him any more, an NCO spoke out from the other side of the medical tent.

"Lieutenant Winterback is missing, Lord Kewell. His Knightmare was lost in combat, and we've had no communications from him since we were separated."

Kewell eyes widened for a moment before he fell into a deep sleep; the last thing he saw was the glint of a needle and the gleam of a scalpel.

* * *

He saw the blade coming down, and instinctively lashed out with the butt of his rifle, catching the blade squarely and knocking it out of its owner's hands, sending it flying through the air into a pile of tattered newspapers. Raising his weapon as he turned, Linus looked down his sights into the eyes of a frightened Eleven. There was a moment of silence between them as the Elven, his chin sporting unshaven stubble and his eyes wild with terror, staggered back, collapsing into the newspapers as he stared into Linus' eyes with a haunting gaze. The two made no movements, and the Eleven, seeing no emotion within the piercing eyes opposite him, shivered and broke, shouting "You killed them! You killed him, you killed my brother!" in a hoarse voice, collapsing into sobs and tears before Linus' eyes as, vengeance and hate in his red eyes, he grabbed the knife from amidst the newspapers and threw himself at the Britannian officer in front of him with a roar.

A burst of fire echoed through the air and the corpse crumpled to the ground by Linus' feet, its eyes wide open in a grotesque mixture of hate and fear; a thin streak of blood dribbling down his pilot suit, he quickly displaced, kicking the knife into a corner.

The Elevens would have noticed the gunfire, and being found would spell his end.

Sprinting through the ruins, passing through crumbling doorways and past glassless windows, Linus stopped by a Eleven slogan scrawled across a wall in red paint in their indecipherable language. To one side of it, a line of corpses lay limply, pockmarked with entry wounds and streaks of dried blood; elderly women and young children. He looked silently over them; if any one of them had reported the terrorists' existence, this wouldn't have happened. This was their own doing, the product of their own treachery. Taking some more steps forward into the empty alleyway, he looked around. To one side, a derelict underground parking lot, filled with shadows, stood with a partly imploded roof. Deciding to take cover from the humidity and the sun, he began to walk briskly towards it, emerging from the shade of the alleyway into the open road.

A lone factsphere stared at him from his left, and as he turned, he realised too late that he had acted in haste. The Sutherland's anti-personnel gun began to move, almost lazily, following his movement as Linus, gritting his teeth tightly and clutching his rifle, began to sprint.

It spat a burst of bullets out across the road. He ran, but not quickly enough and, wincing as a shard of asphalt kicked up by the machinegun embedded itself in his arm, Linus dropped the rifle, trying to ignore the pain shooting through his right arm as he tumbled into the safety of the parking lot, breathing deeply.

Blood trickled out of the wound, and he collapsed against the wall, breathing deeply as he reached tentatively for his medical kit, reaching for a bandage and pulling it out of his bag roughly with a small bottle of spray disinfectant and a roll of tape. Reaching over towards the disinfectant, Linus muttered "You've seen worse, you've seen worse..." He pulled the asphalt out of his arm and, biting his lip, he tried to grab the disinfectant but he fumbled with the cap, unable to open it with his left hand; he could only watch as crimson blood bubbled from his arm...

"Don't move." he heard a voice say. "This is going to hurt." Before he could look up, he felt the disinfectant taken from his hand and a few sprays of liquid hit his wound; he clenched his left fist, feeling the soft touch of a bandage tighten around his arm and the tape stuck over it, securing it in place. After a few moments, the pain receding, Linus looked up into the eyes of a man in a lab coat, a pen tucked into his coat pocket alongside an ID card...

... "Army R&D?" asked Linus, his breathing calming down.

"Yes." came the brief reply. "And you don't look like an Eleven to me. Where are you from; what happened to you?"

"I'm a Purist... my Lord. I got caught up in that explosion, and lost my Knightmare; there's an Eleven Sutherland outside. It caught me crossing the street." he replied.

"The battle's really taking a turn for the worse... Eleven's with Sutherlands. Where the hell did they..."

"They took a freight train." interrupted Linus. "All the activation codes and keys were inside, and they just took them."

"Emperor help me." The R&D man fell silent, and Linus sat back, his head resting against the cool wall.

Eventually, he murmured. "How are we going to escape?"

"That depends." replied the scientist, hesitantly.

"On what... my Lord?"

"Can you pilot a Knightmare?"

"Yes, but..."

It was as he spoke, turning to face the scientist, that Linus first noticed the open Knightmare trailer nestled away to one, darkened side of the parking lot, flickering lights peering out from its driving cabin and a standing Knightmare-shaped figure, covered by a thick, cream-coloured tarpaulin. Standing before the man could reply, Linus slowly walked towards the standing Knightmare; watching warily from the side, a pair of assistants watched as the wounded Purist and their supervisor stepped towards them, one with a look of curiosity and slight hope while the other calmly said "Pull it off." The men did as they were told, and Linus looked up into the eyes of a Knightmare he had never seen before.

Its sleek body gleamed a deep purple. It's cockpit block resembled that of the everyday Sutherland or Gloucester, but the similarity ended there. Broad antennas jutted into the air on either side of the Knightmare's head, a four-dotted factsphere cover sitting comfortably over the Knightmare's two 'eyes'. Broad shoulders resembling those of the Gloucester swept down to a powerful, solid form; looking over the Knightmare, Linus felt a shiver go down his spine.

"The RPA-00 Imperatorius." said the scientist with a wistful smile. "A failed prototype. It was meant to replace the Gloucester, and we did everything we could. Sakuradite, upgraded sensors, its own set of weapons..."

"But?" asked Linus, already knowing the answer.

"We fell out of favour with Prince Clovis." came the reply from the scientist. "All our funding was cut, and we were left with the one prototype we'd made." He paused before adding "We were supposed to deploy it in the battle, but our test pilot was sniped while he was getting out of the trailer, so it's a failed prototype without a pilot."

"Which is where I come in." replied Linus.

"You're all we have left." murmured the scientist, the wistful smile disappearing. "Our lives are already forfeit, with or without this Knightmare. Get us out, and the unit is yours."

Linus took the ignition key from the scientist's hand, stepping forwards.

Beyond the darkness of the ruined parking lot, a single Sutherland lay in wait for him. Further beyond that, within the confines of the Shinjuku Ghetto, an unknown force of captured Sutherlands roamed under the command of someone who had managed to take on Britannia's troops and win with a ragtag band of guerilla soldiers. His squad was gone, and all communications with the rest of the Army was a lost cause amdist the confusion of the aftermath of the initial defeat. He was stuck behind enemy lines, facing an enemy whose numbers he could not fathom.

And yet a thin smile slowly crossed his face. The Elevens had received a miracle, one that had turned the tides of war for them in a manner which they had not experienced for years. If anyone within the Britannian ranks was to repay the favour, it would have to be none other than a Winterback.

He had the weapons, he had the ability, he had the opportunity. Nothing stood in his way but fear, and that was easily brushed aside; Linus stepped up to the Imperatorius and looked up at the abandoned Knightmare; like him, it was lost behind enemy lines, with no clear purpose but an objective that was yet to be completed.

He gripped the ignition key tightly in his bloodstained hand.

It was time for the counterattack.

_Author's Note:_ I read over the first chapter of my old fanfic and decided that a story with a weak base would only collapse if I continued it, so here I am; yes, I intend to rewrite my 100,000 word fanfic but, more importantly, modify the plot. Retrospect is a funny thing; it made me realise that there were many ways in which I could make things more dynamic and more interesting to read.

The old iteration of this fanfic will, of course, stay up; if anyone is so inclined, look at chapter one of that, and then this (but don't look at the rest, because that contains spoilers). The difference is clear; hopefully, this rewrite will carry the Code Geass name with a bit more pride.

So, to my old readers, thank you for your dedication, and to my new readers, welcome to the world of Linus Winterback; remember, this is no average fanfic. It's not a different character's point of view, or a retrospective rethink of a part of the story.

This is a retelling of Code Geass and yet it's a new story; this is the tale of two people whose lives will be shaped by the conflicts of Area Eleven.

Enjoy.

(And remember, I absolutely love reviews; it's nice to know that people out there are not only reading my work, but willing to comment on and criticise it.)


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